


The Ghost and Ms Granger

by ningloreth



Series: The Ghost and Ms Granger [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's best friend is transparent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost and Ms Granger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dramione Love Mini Fest 2016. The prompt was _Haunted bookshop, smoulder, middle-aged Dramione; no main character death or occult elements_.

“ _An eligible wizard approacheth the shoppe._ ”

I look up from the accounts ledger. “Sorry?”

Amos Figge, founder of _Amos Figge His Bookshoppe_ (est. 1592), my self-appointed guardian, and not least amongst the many things sent to try me, is hovering beside the window.

“ _An eligible wizard approacheth_ ,” he repeats.

Amos’s matchmaking skills are generally poor so, when I join him at the window—just out of curiosity—I'm surprised to see that this particular candidate is tall and handsome and that, despite his slightly receding hairline and the puritanical cut of his robes, he moves with a panther-like grace that shouts _SEX_.

(Whatever that is).

He also happens to be Draco Malfoy.

Because there’s always _some_ fly in the potion.

“ _Methinks you shoulde have combed your haire_ ,” says Amos, helpfully.

The door opens with a _ding_.

“Granger!” Malfoy's taken aback. “D’you”—he looks around—“d'you work here?”

“I'm the owner,” I say, and Amos—floating silently behind Malfoy’s back—bristles, because _I_ may have bought the shop from one of his great-great-grand-descendants but, as far as Amos is concerned, _he's_ still the boss.

Malfoy, meanwhile, is scanning the shelves.

“What I'm looking for,” he begins, then stops abruptly, and glances behind him. “Has anyone ever told you they felt a _presence_ in here, Granger?”

Amos, who’s moved in perfect time with the back of Malfoy's head, looks like he might be planning to answer with a bit of poltergeisting. I change his mind with a warning glare.

“No,” I say, firmly.

“Funny,” he says. “Well, what I’m looking for is a copy of Roger Rigidde’s _Phallus Maximus_.” He pronounces the words with scarcely a blush.

I redden enough for both of us. “I think,” I reply, because Amos is pointing at the door to the basement, “we have some books of that, um, nature in the storeroom. Would you like to, um...?”

“Lead on,” says Malfoy.

...

Downstairs, Malfoy’s like a kid in a sweetshop, moving along the shelves, reading out the titles: “ _The Booke of Pleasuring. Fiftie Shades of Paine. The Secrets of Venus and her Paramour Adonis. Phallus_... Yes!— _Phallus Maximus or, the Mightie Member_!”

He pulls out the book and opens it. I catch a glimpse of a magical woodcut, showing an improbably large man servicing an exceedingly brave woman, before he turns the page and studies what appears to be a potion recipe.

“How much?” he asks.

Behind Malfoy, Amos is holding up one hand, fingers spread— _five hundred_.

“A thousand Galleons,” I say, because we’ve got bills to pay.

“Done,” says Malfoy. “But I’d have given you five times that, Granger.”

...

Spring turns to summer, which quickly fades to autumn and, as the weeks pass by, I sometimes find myself thinking of Draco Malfoy...

...

“ _The wizard you day-dreame upon cometh againe_ ,” says Amos. He turns from the window, and surveys me, critically. “ _Mayhap you could pinch your cheekes_...”

The doorbell _dings_.

“Allow me to present,” says Malfoy, sounding insufferably pleased with himself, “Roger Rigidde’s life's work, _Mutuus Multissimus_ , the Mightie Member Potion.” He flourishes a vial of bright blue fluid.

“You brewed it?”

“I _am_ a leading potions manufacturer.”

I reach for the vial, but Malfoy keeps it out of my reach.

“I have a proposition for you, Granger,” he says. “I know you’re desperate for money, and I'm willing to pay you to—”

With a terrifying _screeeeeeeeech_ , accompanied by popping eyes and flying hair, and with clawed hands whirling, Amos flies to protect my honour.

I’m not sure which one of us makes the most noise.

...

“Are you _insane_?” Malfoy’s sitting on floor, holding his head, I'm trying to dab dittany on his grazes, and Amos is sulking in a corner. “If all I wanted was a shag, Granger, I’d pick up some young bimbo with bouncing tits and legs up to her armpits. I was talking about your sixteenth century erotica.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well it’s not mine. And”—I give Amos a significant look—“no one else seems to know who it belongs to, either, _apparently_.”

“If it was in the shop when you bought it,” says Malfoy, choosing to ignore my sarcasm, “it’s yours, Granger. You let me have my pick of it, and I’ll pay you a royalty on any Tudor potions I bring to market.”

I turn to Amos.

“ _’Tis a faire proposal_ ,” he says.

“Okay,” I tell Malfoy, “you’ve got a deal.” I hold out my hand.

His handshake makes me tingle all over.

“And another thing, Granger,” he says, “and this is a no-brainer—you’ve got a genuine haunted bookshop here; you should milk it.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean get the ghost to give your customers a thrill.”

“Amos isn’t a bloody freak show!”

Malfoy turns to Amos. “I see you making personal appearances to invited guests—all very tasteful,” he says. “We’d have your portrait painted, and printed on posters, tea cups, and anything else you fancy. Imagine your face stretched across the bosom of some nubile young witch...”

It takes him a while to convince _me_ , but I think he has Amos at _bosom_.

...

I’m refilling the Christmas card display when the doorbell _dings_.

“Hello, Granger,” says Malfoy. “Where’s our transparent friend?”

“In the basement, at a meeting of his fan club.”

“Excellent,” he says and, turning the sign to _Closed_ , he leads me upstairs to my flat.

...

“ _Mutuus Multissimus_ ,” I say, holding the blue potion up to the light. “What does it do, exactly?”

Malfoy shrugs. “Gives a man a ‘right mightie member’.”

“‘Right mightie’ in what sense?”

“Rigidde doesn’t spell it out.”

“And you haven’t tested it?”

“I haven’t had,” he says, so softly it sounds like an overdose of _Amortentia_ , “the opportunity...”

“To avoid potential embarrassment,” I say, as he takes me in his arms, “am I right, this time, to assume you want to have sex with me?”

...

Much later, after he’s ravished me against the wall, and again on the stairs, and again in the shower (with my wrists bound above my head), and yet again—and best of all—on the bed (with me on all fours, and his hands crushing my breasts) and, every time, we’ve come together, screaming like a pair of Chinese Fireballs mating in mid-air, and he’s needed no time to recover afterwards... I know why Rigidde called his potion _Mutuus Multissimus_.

“Multiple— _kiss_ —mutual— _kiss_ —orgasms, Draco,” I say, working my way down his body. “It’ll make you— _kiss_ —millions. _Mmmmmmm_.”

“Oh,” he whimpers, “ _yes_!”

And I really don’t think he’s talking about business.


End file.
